


Wrapped in My Memory

by walkwithursus



Category: The Sopranos
Genre: Blood, Death Threats, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gun Violence, Heroin, Italian Mafia, Italian-American Culture, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Murder, Non-Blood Relatives, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Relapsing, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Violence, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 11:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16136540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: Christopher's loyalty is tested during a traumatic event, after which he relapses. When Tony finds out he's using again the resulting conversation turns ugly.





	Wrapped in My Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for major character death up through season five. If you have not completed season five, please be advised and read at your own discretion.

Christopher is alone in the backroom of the Bing, and has been for what feels like a very long time.

Silvio’s tiny TV is on, set to a public broadcast of _¡Three Amigos!_ with Steve Martin. It’s good company, in a weird way. Uncomplicated. The movie is a relic from his younger days and he knows every scene by heart. 

In time the door to the club opens behind Chris, and music momentarily floods the office. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t need to to confirm that it’s Tony who’s entered and closed the door behind himself. He feels the hand on his head and knows. 

“Hey.” 

“Ton.” 

Tony Soprano sits on the edge of Silvio’s desk. 

“You alright?”

Christopher nods to the screen. The Three Amigos are on horseback, trudging unsupplied through the Mexican desert. He knows what part is coming up next; Chevy Chase is gonna offer the other guys lip balm.

“Some funny shit,” he says. 

Tony looks at the TV, then back to Christopher. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Christopher glances at Tony’s face. Suspicion and anger simmer just beneath the surface, and immediately he feels disappointed in himself. He’s made a bad choice, and because he couldn’t stand to be alone in that apartment, he’s come to the one place where Tony was bound to find out about it. He hesitates a moment longer before divulging the truth. 

“I snorted a little ‘H.” 

Tony looks away in disgust. Christopher takes a deep breath and tries to assemble his thoughts in a way that might be remotely comprehensible, given that he’s spent the better part of the night ignoring them.

“I know.” He says, and despite himself the next words come out in earnest. “But I can’t stand the pain... I loved her.”

There’s a moment where he doesn’t know what’s happening, where the TV and the Amigos have gone, and then it dawns on him that he’s on the ground and Tony has put him there. On some level he knows he’s being kicked, can hear the sound of Tony’s shoe thudding against his body and his own yelps, but either the shock of the fall or the heroin have numbed the pain. The blows land wherever. Stomach, chest, ribs, it’s all the same, a dull sting not unlike his uncle’s hand patting him a little too hard on the back.

“Fuckin’ pain, huh?” Tony’s face is puce and shiny with sweat. He delivers a final kick that catches Chris in the side of the head before leaning over him to shout, “You think you’re alone in this?!” 

Chris knows better than to say anything. But he’s a mouthpiece for the heroin, and he hears himself mutter a string of vulgarities into the concrete floor.

He cringes in anticipation, expecting another kick, but it doesn’t come. Instead, fingers dig into his scalp and drag him upwards so that he’s crouching awkwardly on his knees. 

“Look at me,” Tony orders, and Chris obstinantly hangs his head. “I said _look at me!_ ” A quick jerk of the hand and Christopher’s neck snaps back at an angle. Eyes rolling, ears ringing, Tony’s face swims too close in his vision. “How dare you talk to me like that? After all I’ve done for you?” 

Chris is motionless, too sluggish to struggle in Tony’s grasp, but his temper has flared and so he slurs, “Oh, right, what the _fuck…_ what the _fuck_ have you ever done for me, Tony? Everything I got I earned twice over!” 

“Oh, you earned it, huh? Is that what you think?” Tony looms closer, almost face to face to deliver his next line, and his volume is ear-splitting. “You would’ve never amounted to shit if it weren’t for me! All these years I’ve spent lookin’ after you, all the opportunities I’ve given you, all the shit I’ve dealt with on your behalf, and you got the balls to say you earned it?”

Chris rebuts this automatically. “What fuckin’ opportunities? Driving your fat ass around everywhere? Picking up your dry cleaning? Taking out the trash everyone else was too good for? I was the fuckin’ garbage disposal of this family for _ten years._ ” 

“Fuckin’ garbage disposal, my ass!” Tony bellows. “You’ve been walkin’ around with a goddamn silver spoon in your mouth! I’ve never seen a more disrespectful piece of shit than you. Disrespecting your captains, disobeying orders, all your bullshit with Paulie - ”

“Oh, fuck Paulie,” Christopher moans, half delirious. “And fuck you too, Tony. All you ever did was fuck my fiancée, and you know what? I bet you’re glad this happened. I bet you’re glad, cause now you don’t have to worry ‘bout her rattin’ you out no more. Fuckin’ wife-fucker!”

Tony’s chest swells with anger. “What did you say?” 

“You heard me!”

There’s a loud _crack!_ , and the back of Tony’s hand strikes him hard in the mouth. Christopher collapses, momentarily dazed, but quickly takes the opportunity to scramble away on hands and knees. He makes it as far as the pool table, and with both hands gripping the edge of the felt he attempts to regain his feet. His arms shake. The heroin has paralyzed his strength, and before he can stand Tony’s shoe lands squarely in the small of his back. There’s no pain, but the blow leaves him winded and unable to move. Gasping for air, Chris cranes his neck and spots one of the pool cues where it has fallen under the table. He makes a desperate grab, and manages to swing it up towards his assailant in a burst of energy. 

Tony catches the stick with frightening ease. Christopher lets it go and rolls sideways under the pool table, prepared to be beat with it if Tony can reach him. But the stick clatters to the ground somewhere in the distance, and instead two large hands are dragging him out and onto his knees again. This time there is no tugging, no yelling, and when at last Christopher manages to train his eyes on Tony he is staring down the muzzle of his _Beretta._

“I oughtta fuckin’ kill you, you know that? _Huh?_ Ungrateful little shit.” 

The rage has gone from Tony’s face, and he is left with an expression without feeling, without remorse. Christopher’s heart stops, and his blood runs cold. It’s not the first time he’s been face to face with his uncle’s piece, but the deadened look in his eye is new, and makes Christopher wonder if Tony has ever really loved him at all, or anybody for that matter. 

Tony prods the handgun roughly against Christopher’s chin and cocks the hammer back. 

“Open your mouth.” 

Christopher blanches. “Aw, Jesus Christ, T,” he moans, but he’s not allowed to finish. Tony’s free hand comes down in an instant, squeezes his cheeks so hard that his lips pop open unwillingly, and then the gun is there, cold steel that tastes like blood on his tongue. Tony shoves it hard against his half-open mouth, and as it grinds against his teeth and gums Chris is forced to unhinge his jaw and allow its entrance. 

He can’t speak - can’t barely breathe. The air whistles in and out of his nostrils as Tony bares down on him, and though his vision is sharper than ever it's beginning to muddle as his oxygen supply dwindles. 

“Now you listen to me, you little prick.” Tony’s voice is low, and dangerous, and his face is so close that flecks of spit hit Christopher’s cheeks. “I told you once before that you were never to bring that Adriana shit up again. You hear me? It’s fuckin’ over. Not to mention that none of that shit should even matter now anyway, considering what that little bitch has done to this family. Which, by the way, is your fuckin’ fault. A _year,_ Christopher, a whole year and you didn’t notice your fiancée was being shook down by the feds? What’s the matter with you? I should kill you just for that,” Tony says, and his finger squeezes on the trigger for emphasis. 

Christopher shakes his head minutely and sucks the snot in that’s dribbling from his nose. 

“Actually, I should’ve killed you six months ago when you first started all this bullshit. But I didn’t, and you know why?” Tony shakes him so hard that Christopher chokes on the saliva that’s pooled in the back of his throat. “Cause you were gonna be the boss of this fuckin’ family. You’re my fuckin’ nephew Christopher - my fuckin’ successor. But don’t think that won’t stop me from blowing your brains all over this fuckin’ wall!” 

Christopher inhales sharply and makes a sound like a wounded animal, as though Tony’s words alone had struck the killing blow. The noise seems to break through the intensity of the elder’s focus, and when Tony speaks again his temper has cooled somewhat. 

“After the shit I did for you today, I don’t want to hear another word about this. Nothing. Not the girl, not the accident, none of it. You understand me?” Christopher can only look at him with bulging eyes. “And don’t you ever fucking say I ain’t done shit for you. I’ve done more than most - more than I ever fucking should have - and I’m sick and tired of being unappreciated. So I swear to God Christopher, if you don’t change your attitude, next time we won’t even be having this conversation.”

At these words, the emotion returns to Tony’s expression, overcoming the mask of stone - or maybe the emotion is the mask and the stone the reality. Christopher isn’t sure anymore, or maybe he never ways. But it hurts him more to think that Tony might feel nothing toward him than anything at all, and he thinks to himself that between abuse and indifference, he’d choose the first every time. 

Tony makes hard eye contact, and Christopher meets it pleadingly, forcing his distorted face to convey a thousand nonverbal messages. After a long minute Tony sighs, a deep, contemplative breath that flares his nostrils. 

“Alright, enough of this,” Tony says, and he gently extracts the gun from Christopher’s mouth. Its removal is painful, steel scraping against his teeth and across his busted bottom lip, and a long string of saliva remains connected to the weapon until Tony wipes it on the leg of his pants. As soon as the gun is tucked out of sight Christopher collapses, unable to support himself under the weight of all that has transpired. 

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” he moans, a long, low wail that fills the silence of the room. He can't catch his breath, can't stop crying as the events leading up to this moment flash rapidly before his eyes. Adriana's purple cheeks as he choked the life out of her, the family at the gas station with the rust-colored Chevy, the toiletry bag he'd jammed all those lotions and pills into, the ticket stub he'd placed on the dash of Ade's car at the airport. Christopher's heart, his stomach, his head, they hurt as though the shame is devouring him from the inside out, and he thinks he's gonna puke, gonna pass out from the pain. If only Tony had pulled that trigger and saved him the trouble, it would all be okay, because he wants to die, wants to die, wants to die, so much that he's voicing it aloud over and over again as his blood and snot puddle on the concrete floor. 

Eventually he registers the pat of a hand on his back, and the sound of Tony’s voice telling him gently but firmly to get up. With much help, he stands half-erect. Fat, humiliating tears streak Christopher’s cheeks and cling to his eyelashes, blurring his line of sight so that Tony is little more than a vague shape outlined against the background. 

There are hands on his face. “Look at you,” Tony says, as he turns Christopher’s cheek this way and that to assess the damage that's been done. Chris sniffs pathetically and attempts to duck from the contact, but Tony won’t have it. “C’mere.” 

Obediently, he stumbles forward. The distance between them closes, and Christopher slouches into his uncle’s embrace like a child. Tony’s touch is tender, compassionate, and as one hand wipes Christopher’s tears the other rubs the nape of his neck in firm, reassuring circles. Kisses land on his head and Tony’s fingers migrate into his hair, slowly petting and stroking until Christopher’s sobs subside to a hiccup.

“You’re a good boy, Chrissy,” Tony murmurs, his lips pressed tight against the young man’s temple. Chris takes a shuddering breath and fists Tony’s jacket tighter. He wavers over what to say in return, to smooth over the encounter so that they might move on as though it never happened, but somehow an apology seems insufficient. Such sentiment is too cliche, and worn out coming from Christopher, but more importantly it doesn’t carry the weight he needs it to. It’s not enough to express the devotion he feels, the bond between them that proved stronger than his love for the woman he would have married. 

This morning Christopher had called it loyalty. And now, he mumbles:

“I love you, T. I fucking love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a continuation of an existing scene in Season 5: Episode 12, Long Term Parking. The title is borrowed from the outro song in the same episode; Wrapped in My Memory - Shawn Smith
> 
> The Sopranos does not have a very big online fan presence, so if you read this please let me know with a kudos and comment.


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